


A Motive for a Reunion

by action_cat



Series: If John Fell Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:39:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up, a month after remembering Moriarty. However, when he comes into the living room for tea, a cryptic note shocks him and Sherlock into a surprising turn of events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Motive for a Reunion

One month later.

"Well, this is embarrassing." Sherlock sat upon his armchair, as if he was perched on a telephone wire. It was with caution, and and the expression of worry painted across his face, as he furiously punched Mycrofts' number into the phone. It rang twice, then went straight to voicemail.

John paced nervously across the flat, window to doorway, arms held behind his back. He's been doing this for the past ten minutes, ever since Sherlock first took his perch upon the chair. He stopped for a moment and looked outside. In the light London sun, no taxi cabs stopped outside Baker Street. They passed by as if the flat was invisible to the outside world. John could see his reflection in the window. The other him looked worried, lines crossing his face. He avoided looking to his right, and for good reason. Trying to relax, he began to pace again.

"God, John, stop pacing. You're making it worse for yourself." Sherlock redialed again and again, each time another line is added to his forehead. John stopped pacing.

"Yeah? Well what else do I do? You can't contact Mycroft, Lestrade hasn't replied either, and we're out of tea!" John flopped down on his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Sherlock knew he was worried. He looked up from the phone screen, and frowned, tilting his head to the side. Deductions popped through his head, but as he looked over to his left, his mind went blank.

Only a month earlier John had remembered who it was who made him fall off that building, and make him fake his death. Now, if he could remember why, Moriarty would be caught. So for the past month, Sherlock, John, and Mycroft would congregate to discuss theories. And sometimes Mrs. Hudson. But, attempts became futile after every lead became cold. They almost gave up, this morning John woke up for tea, only to find it all gone and a cryptic note on the walls. Mrs. Hudson was most displeased.

_The tea is gone, do you know why?_

_How many angels really fly?_

_I'd tell you where you have to go,_

_But when I do, you'll already know._

_Every night I try to sleep._

_Don't try it now, won't have need._

John had froze, staring at the walls in horror. Underneath, was Moriarty's trademark spray paint smile. He stayed right where he was, until Sherlock found him, half an hour later; the result of waiting for John to bring tea and becoming impatient. The moment he saw John and the confusing poem, he grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him into the kitchen, where he searched for tea. However, Moriarty, true to his word, had taken all the tea. So brandy just had to do for the time being.

Sherlock looked over to John again, and pressed call again, once more, still looking at John. The phone rang once, twice, and then-

"This is Mycroft."

Sherlock fumbled for the phone, jumping out of the chair as he did so.

"God, Mycroft, were you shoving cake into your face the entire time I tried to call you?" Sherlock moved into the kitchen, John didn't take notice.

"No, actually, Greg and I were...talking."

"Greg? Who the hell is Greg? Honestly, Mummy said I'm the one with the make-believe friends, Mycroft." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, Sherlock, you know Greg as Lestrade. You pickpocket him when he's annoying." Someone grumbled in the background, and Mycroft huffed.

"Oh? Great, I've got both of you. Listen, something new has come up. Get to Baker Street immediately, it's urgent." Sherlock slid the phone shut dramatically, ending the call. He walked brusquely over to John, and put his hands on either side of the armchair. John still had his hands over his face, not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock pulled his fingers away, one by one, and John looked up at Sherlock, in a defeated sort of way, even though the battle had hardly begun.

"What. I know Mycrofts coming." John attempted to put his hand over his eyes, but Sherlock kept his hand firmly over Johns'. John rolled his eyes.

"John, you've been awake since three in the morning. Go on back to bed." Sherlock pulled John up from the armchair, ignoring grumbles from the army doctor. He led him back to the bedroom, John slowly shuffling along. Eventually, they made it to the bedroom. John collapsed on the bed, and when Sherlock turned to leave John grabbed his sleeve.

"Don't bloody leave me. Stay in this room, right until Mycroft comes."

Obliging, Sherlock sat down, resting against the headboard next to John. They sat in silence, holding each others hand. An hour went by, and small talk began.

"John, where did you grow up?" Sherlock asked, out of the blue.

John looked up at him. "Chelmsford. We lived in a group of houses. It was…a difficult home life. What about you?"

"A town like it, although not like it at all." Sherlock looked away.

"And here I was, thinking you had always lived in London."

Sherlock looked back at John. "Well, Mummy used to be a renowned mathematician, but she gave it up."

John looked up. "I wonder why."

"As do I."

They sat in silence for a while.

"She used to recite this poem about angels falling. When I was little, it was my bedtime...story."

John looked back, a smirk almost shown. "Really? Let's hear it."

Sherlock took a deep breathe.

_Seven angels flew from hell,_

_On Earth they find, not all is well._

_One by one, they soon dispersed._

_To find the cause of chaos first._

_One flew to the West, to find the wild._

_Instead, he only lasted a mile._

_The second flew to the East, to smite greed._

_But that was not the cause, indeed._

_The third and fourth, both went to the North,_

_And were lost in the history lore._

_The fifth, flew way down South,_

_But ne'er came back, he caught a bout._

_The six, it seems, went back to Heaven._

_He gave his wisdom to Seven._

_And Seven stayed where he was,_

_Blending in to find the cause._

_Yet, all in vain, was the gain,_

_As the cause of chaos that had brought hell_

_Were the angels themselves._

As Sherlock finished, there was a knock at the door. John blearily got out of bed, his mind full of what he had just heard. Sherlock left the room first, a pink spot just visible on his high cheekbones. When he got to the kitchen, Mycroft was already sitting down.

"Oh hello John. Nice night, I hope?" John sent him a loathing look, and Mycroft just looked at him like, _really John? I'm not that stupid._ Sherlock cleared his throat.

"So, Mycroft, have you seen the note? I hope you could view it over that humongous stomach of yours." Mycroft rolled his eyes. They went into the living room, where Mycroft read the cryptic poem. He turned to Sherlock.

"This reminds me of that poem Mummy used to recite to us, before bed. You have the same conclusions?" Sherlock nodded. They shared a look, and when they turned to John, he knew something was up.

"Alright, what is it? What did I miss?" John grumbled, avoiding eye contact. Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"Well, the good news is that it isn't for you." Mycroft smiled, and tipped his hat as he walked out the door.

"Afternoon." He called out, grabbing his umbrella. John turned around, confused.

"Why is he leaving? He should help us!"

Sherlock was already at the computer, making notes. He looked at John, and smiled as though they shared an inside joke. But as far as John knew, they didn't. Sherlock started typing.

"John, it's a riddle. _How many angels really fly_ is a line from the original version of the poem Mummy told us. That, combined with the end conclusion that six was the only one that gave up and flew home safely, we can conclude that every sixth letter is a clue. "Therefore, we are left with the letters A, E, K, Y, N, L, L, D, O, another A, another Y, V, G, another Y, E, T, another O, H, and E. It's an acronym, leading us straight to something important. Thus, we get the sentence,  _Hey ye,_ _g_ _o to alkyd lane._ However, we get an extra V, which can be shaped into an arrow. Therefore, our answer is at Alkyd Lane, where ever that is. And when we get there, we look for an arrow! I'm brilliant!"

John just stared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I lived on Alkyd Lane in Chelmsford. V is the Roman numeral for Five, and we lived in the fifth house. It's a code, leading to my bloody house." The realization of John's words scared them both.

"Well, is anyone ready for a family reunion with the Watsons?"

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know it's a bit confusing, but i really want to head into a bit of John's family. I don't know if there is a Alkyd road in Chelmsford, and I don't know why the angels flew from hell. However, thanks for reading. Have a lovely day, everyone.


End file.
